Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  Enemy cannon didn’t much concern Legate Colonel Bekiaa-Sab-At at present, though it certainly had throughout the long, bloody slog upriver. Right now, her 5th Repub Division and most of Rolak’s III Corps were all “under” the guns: too close and too low for them to bear. The Grik had never developed hand grenades, or if they had, they’d never made enough to field, and the closest thing they had was lit case shot, dropped from above. This was a menace, and quite a few ’Cats and men were wounded by flying iron, but the bulk of the infantry remained just outside the lethal blast radius. Well-concealed Grik infantry was doing more harm, blindly firing muskets down at them as the assault force prepared itself. Bekiaa swore as one of her runners shrieked and fell beside her. Even before she could call for a Repub medicus, the man went silent and still. “We need some daamn air support,” she fumed.

  “They can’t do it. Not in the dark,” Bekiaa’s aide, “Optio” Jack Meek, reminded reasonably. The son of Doocy Meek, Jack was more than just an optio and he’d become Bekiaa’s most devoted and trusted assistant. “We’re too close,” he continued. “Like as not hit us.” He nodded forward and up. “They’re dumpin’ plenty of incendiaries farther back, though, burnin’ Grik that’re tryin’ ta move up from behind.” He grinned and waved behind at the rapid-fire cannonade. “An’ our guns’re doin’ well enough, Legate.” It was true. As much as Grik artillery had improved in this war, their crews had only begun to gain a proficiency Allied gunners had two years ago—and had steadily improved upon. Even at this range, their direct fire was good enough to shoot over their heads—usually—and push the Grik down or blast them apart. The effect was already apparent and the musket fire was dwindling.

  Meek watched the exploding shells rippling and flaring redly on the heights with a critical eye. “Even with their old smoothbores, Union gunners’re daamn good. P’raps they tend ta shoot a bit long. . . .” He chuckled. “But with our precious bodies in front of ’em, I reckon that’s better’n short! But how ’bout them Derby guns!” he added proudly. Sometimes called “sniper caannon” by their envious allies, the Repub 75s were rapidly suppressing Grik counter–battery fire.

  “They’re swell,” Bekiaa conceded, “but still too slow. Time for us to get in on the aact. Staand by, Mortaars,” her voice trilled loudly, carrying farther than one might expect in the overwhelming din. Bugles and whistles took up her command, radiating outward. Mortar men and ’Cats poised finned bombs over pre-registered tubes. “Commence firing!”

  The unmistakable tunk! T-tu-tu-tun-tuuunk! of mortar bombs rising from hundreds of smoky tubes quickly sounded, and Bekiaa knew others would be doing the same out of sight and hearing for miles to the right. Just as other gun lines, equally long, were punishing more Grik in front of additional attackers. The cloudy night sky to the east-northeast was glowing and flashing continuously, like some great, terrible storm on the horizon.

  This was the heaviest bombardment of the war to date, incorporating every field piece in the combined Allied armies on the continent. Over eight hundred guns were firing as fast as their crews could serve them and there’d probably never been so much metal in the air on this world at one time. The earthshaking noise of it all was overwhelming, and soon would come the largest coordinated advance against a single objective. Three entire corps, each composed of between twenty-five and thirty-five thousand troops, would make the initial assault, followed by half the Repub IV Corps and eventually I Corps and the rest of IV Corps when they arrived. They were the only real reserve they had, since the overall strategy was simplicity itself: overwhelm the enemy with fire, fury, determination, and—if Enaak was right—superior numbers. There was no fallback, no “plan B.” They’d carry the heights and secure the locks and win the war . . . or be repulsed. If that occurred, all they could do was assume the defensive and think of something else.

  The boulder-strewn base of the cliff was about two hundred yards ahead, and the jagged crest a hundred and sixty to two hundred feet above was backlit by constant flashing, smoky strobes of light as mortar bombs burst. Slides of gravel and stone, mingled with the wet thud of Grik bodies blown from their defenses were already falling in front of them, and this deluge of rock and flesh only intensified. Able to fire and adjust the mortars themselves, Bekiaa’s infantry could drop them much closer. An entire gun tube slammed into the rocky ground with a loud iron crack, splitting when it hit.

  Then again, Bekiaa mused, Gener-aal Aalden doesn’t think he’ll haave to think of something else. At least he hedged one bet. She tilted her helmet forward to ward off settling dust and gravel. This far back, she shouldn’t be hit by anything large, or any parts of Grik. Despite his trust in Haalik and Jaash, we’ll be facing the first when he meets us. If he double-crosses us, he caan’t threaten our flaanks with the mountains on one side and lake on the other. As for Jaash, he might eat the Repub Fifth Corps, but he caan’t get at us across the lake or river. She had no inclination to trust any Grik and wondered how General Alden could. ’Course, he’d know a lot of folks feel like I do, she realized. Prob’ly rigged it so none of our tails’ll be flaappin’ in the breeze exaactly so we won’t worry about ‘allied’ Grik when we already got the rest to think about.

  She hauled her Impie watch out of a belt pouch and studied the hands, well lit by flashing shell bursts. Four minutes, she told herself.

  “Good evening, Legate Bekiaa,” came a cheerfully urbane voice beside her.

  “General Rolak!” she exclaimed with surprise. Her corps commander, indeed the commander of all three corps about to storm the cliffs, was surrounded by aides and runners as well as his personal guard platoon of the 1st Marines, members of the famed “Triple I.” Rolak wore the same battle dress they did and carried an Allin-Silva rifle slung over his shoulder. “Whaat’re you doin’ here?”

  Rolak blinked amusement. “I’m in chaarge. I caan do whaat I waant.” He chuckled at her disapproval. “In truth, as you know, no one will be in ‘over-aall commaand’ very soon, yet everyone, down to our most recently arrived replacements, knows exaactly whaat to do. Those new arrivaals maay not yet know how to do whaat we expect of them, but thaat’s whaat NCOs are for. My point is, there’s no subtlety here, no . . . aart, and now it’s been set in motion, none of us caan materially affect the outcome of this baattle except by fighting as haard as we caan. I mean no disrespect to Gener-aal Aalden with the ‘aart’ craack,” he hastened to add. “His plaan is raather beautiful in its simplicity and I applaud him for it. He might affect the outcome, depending on where he puts First Corps, but this will be a Grik hunt for the rest of us.”

  He drew himself up and for the first time in quite a while Bekiaa remembered the old Lemurian general was taller than she was. “We haave excellent communications and if all goes well, the Aarmy HQ will quickly be hopelessly distaant from any direct observations I might make in any case.” He looked around at the Repub troops nearby, their flash-lit human expressions and Lemurian blinking showing astonishment at his presence. “I’ve fought alongside you, Legate Bekiaa, but never with Republic forces. It’s high time I did.” He gestured at the cliffs. “Paarticularly since you’re the aarmy’s left on this side of the river, and will likely face the stiffest opposition.”

  “But . . . Gener-aal Rolak! If you faall . . .”

  “I’ll be ably replaced by Gener-aal Faan.” Rolak blinked enjoyment at Bekiaa’s discomfiture. “I’ll never be a modern gener-aal,” he told her, lower. “I could never abide all thaat ridiculous bookkeeping, the little details.” He blinked amazement. “Gener-aal Faan thrives on thaat! No, I’m just an old waarrior, ready for my laast baattle.” He paused, taking in the maelstrom of fire they were about to enter. “I used to love to fight, you know,” he murmured conversationally, barely audible, “but I’ve never much enjoyed this waar. It was faar too serious for my taste.” He looked intently at her. “I fully intend to enjoy this baattle, however, and I won’t be denied.” His eyes narrowed an
d his tail whipped dismissively as he raised his voice to carry. “And as Gener-aal Aalden personaally led the aarmy out of its defenses at Tassanna’s Perimeter, I will lead this attaack. With you and your division, Legate.”

  Bekiaa barely heard him add “It’s my turn” over the sudden spreading cheers that rivaled the bombardment. Of course, there was a reason why she heard him at all. She glanced back at her watch. The cannonade was beginning to lift, and it was time. “Graapnels,” she roared. More mortars sounded, reports oddly heavier as they lofted hundreds of four-prong hooks up the cliff, lines uncoiling like mad jumping spiders spraying strands of silk.

  “Up and at them!” bellowed Prefect Bele, an amazingly tall, black-skinned Repub and Bekiaa’s XO. Hundreds of Repubs, human and Lemurian, surged forward to grasp the dangling lines and start racing up. There was no return fire from the shell-shocked Grik—not yet—but it would come.

  “Very well, Gener-aal Rolak,” Bekiaa growled, then glared harshly at his Marines. Many probably knew her from old. “But you better keep him safe,” she told them. “My people will be too busy.” She looked back at Rolak. “And though you are my gener-aal, you’ll obey me in any close fighting!”

  Rolak smiled. “Of course!”

  “Optio Meek!” she called loudly.

  “Aye, Legate.”

  “You bear witness?”

  “Heard it all an’ wrote it down. Even signed it meself,” he chuckled, holding up a notepad. “He’ll not get our arses on the block for his foolishness.”

  The grapnel lines were black with figures now, and muskets were starting to thump down at them. Marksmen had been detailed to shoot at the flashes above but there’d soon be too many if they didn’t get a foothold. Even as they watched, a line must’ve been severed and men and ’Cats fell screaming like beads off a broken necklace. Those lowest to the ground might’ve been fine if half a dozen more hadn’t landed on them. “Stretcher-bearers!” came the cry. Bekiaa looked up. With the big guns and mortars quiet, the only illumination came from fires they’d started and the increasing rifle and musket fire. She realized then that there were rifles at the top, which meant some of her own must’ve made it already.

  “No time like the present,” Rolak challenged.

  Bekiaa nodded. “I’m going up, Prefect Bele,” she shouted over the firing. “I’ll signaal when the lodgment’s secure. Only then will you allow Gener-aal Rolak to ascend. You’ll staay with the reserve until I send for you, and keep pushing up supplies. Hopefully there’re already other lodgments along the line, but Grik’ll focus wherever they are and counterattaack. I’ll waant maachine guns first, to keep them off us, then mortars to push ’em back.”

  CHAPTER 32

  ////// West shore of Lake Galk

  Grik Africa

  General of the Sky Mitsuo Ando and his skeletal pilots were checking their planes one final time. They hadn’t flown in months, and the worst abuse for complicated machines is disuse. Their inspections were awkward because the only light came from torches held by sullen Grik. This was disconcerting for a variety of reasons. First, the proximity of open flames to their fueling operation was enough to give them all the creeps. Second, they’d watched as Allied aircraft methodically destroyed nearly everything left on the water over the last few days, with virtually no resistance from antiair rockets. Ando didn’t get that. There’d been a lot of the things hereabouts. Granted, they’d stopped production when he began the yanone project—they could only make so much gunpowder for the fuel—but there should still be plenty to make it rough for Allied planes. In any event, the land around Lake Galk was darker than he’d ever seen it, utterly blacked out, and other than a couple of charred ship carcasses still smoldering in the shallows, theirs were the only visible lights. Ando could occasionally hear the engines of the smaller Allied floatplanes prowling over the lake and expected air attack at any moment.

  Finally, there were the Grik themselves. Looking at them. Whether the half-starved creatures believed Ando and his men were preparing for a mission for their Supreme Regent or not, their greedy eyes and drooling jaws betrayed their thoughts: supper was getting away.

  “Ready?” Ando demanded.

  “All ready,” Ueda agreed briskly, voice belying his weakness.

  Must be using up the last of his reserves for this, Ando thought. He looks barely able to stand. I hope he can fly.

  There came the sound of trotting feet, lots of them, preceding the grinding rumble of iron tires on gravel. A Grik-drawn vehicle was coming. Ando could hardly remember the last time a supply cart came, but the sound of its solid wood wheels and two plodding Uul was nothing like this. Only coaches carrying Esshk’s important messengers made the noise he heard, and Ando’s heart shriveled.

  “Let’s go now!” Ueda hissed. “They’ll stop us!”

  “We can’t,” Ando breathed back, nodding at the Grik around the planes. “Without torches marking the runway, we’ll hit a stump or something. The strip’s too narrow! We’ll just have to bluff a little longer. They’ll leave and we’ll go.”

  A hundred harnessed Grik, all warriors, pulled the tall, narrow carriage up in front of the planes. Two Grik jumped down from the back and opened a door. To Ando’s amazement, Esshk himself stepped out, followed by two other Grik generals.

  A wild temptation seized him. He and Ueda still had Nambu pistols holstered on their loose belts—their only protection from the ground crew. The urge quickly faded, damped by the fact they only had the rounds in their magazines and it usually took at least two, sometimes three, of the small-caliber bullets to stop a single Grik. They had no chance against this many. Even if they killed Esshk, they’d be shredded in seconds. Still, it’s almost worth it, Ando mused. The only things that stopped him were his responsibility to his men, and the fact he had made an oath to Esshk. He was ready to abandon him, but couldn’t quite kill him.

  “Extinguish those torches at once,” a general bellowed, “and show your obeisance to the Supreme Regent!”

  Ando’s Grik quickly dropped their torches in ready water buckets before flinging themselves to the ground. One would’ve had to take a couple of steps to the closest water, so he simply dropped on top of his torch and smothered it with his body. There was a sizzling sound—the ground crew wore no armor, of course—but the creature made no cry.

  Esshk stepped forward. With his night vision destroyed, Ando could barely see him—can’t tell if he has missed any meals, he thought darkly—but when Esshk spoke, his voice didn’t sound any different from when he last heard it. “You prepare your flying machines?” he demanded.

  “Yes, Lord,” Ando replied. There was no point denying it.

  For a long moment, Esshk said nothing. Finally, he grunted. “I would counsel you not to show lights at night, General of the Sky, but I approve of your diligence. Particularly now. You’ve doubtless seen what happened on the lake, and watched the approach of our enemies as well.” For the first time, as his eyes adjusted, Ando did see flaring flashes far to the north, amid a long line of large fires. Burning lumberyards, shipyards, maybe villages, he thought. Closer, firecracker flickering of massed musket fire was interspersed with longer, brighter pulses of artillery. Obviously, a great land battle was underway on the other side of the lake, just short, it seemed, of the bay where the yanone carriers were hidden. Turning to his right, following the line of the mountains to the east by the way they blocked the stars, he saw more pulsing light to the south, beyond the distant lock he could barely see in daylight. “Yes, ah, yes, Lord,” he stammered. “They appear closer than they did when we first noticed. Don’t they, Ueda?” he prompted.

  His frail XO started, but quickly caught on. “Yes, they do. Much closer.”

  Esshk sighed. “And you prepare to meet the threat. Of all who’ve served me, you, at least, are loyal,” he murmured bitterly through teeth almost clenched. “It’s unfortunate we’ve been . .
. unable to communicate as closely as before, but I’ve been pressed by other matters. As you might’ve guessed, the force in the north is General Halik. He makes me pull reserves from my defenses around the lock”—his voice turned to a snarl—“which the real enemy has suddenly, so coincidentally, chosen to assail in force.” Dark arms emerged from under the cape Esshk always wore and he waved them in the night. “I’m hard-pressed,” he confessed. “General Ign may yet join us, but the rest of my army is fighting for its life, for the life of our race.” If he realized he’d included five beings he once considered lowly prey in his use of the word “our” he made no sign. “But though the army remains loyal and strong, it has grown more . . . fragile of late. And for the first time in this war, perhaps ever, combat attrition and . . . supply issues have reduced the numbers of a Gharrichk’k army, an entire swarm, below those of the enemy.”